


The Things You Do to Me with a Touch

by Heofaucandlir



Series: Aragorn's Lost Years: T.A. 2957-3017 [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aragorn and Arwen are Beren and Luthien 2.0, Aragorn needs a hug, BAMF Arwen Undómiel, Canon Compliant, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is Going to be Ok, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Frickin elves man, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Term Relationship(s), Magic, Mortality, Pre-Canon, Rivendell | Imladris, Scars, Sensuality, Softness, T.A. 3007, Third Age, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heofaucandlir/pseuds/Heofaucandlir
Summary: Aragorn and Arwen share a night in Rivendell in the fall of T.A. 3007. Aragorn has returned from great and perilous journeys carrying the kind of scars that might never fade. Luckily for him, the Lady Arwen has something to say in the matter.Or, "Gently removing the emotional and etheric shrapnel from your adventure boyfriend because he gets into all manner of trouble and you have elf magic"
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Arwen Undómiel, Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Series: Aragorn's Lost Years: T.A. 2957-3017 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794691
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	The Things You Do to Me with a Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posted LotR fic so play nice and enjoy!
> 
> Background: Elves obviously view marriage very differently from mortals. They rarely marry because they will spend the next of their extremely long life with this person and they don’t commit to that lightly. They also don’t practice extra-marital or pre-marital sex. Aragorn, having been raised in Rivendell, would likely have these views as well, and Arwen is Elrond's daughter, not just any Elf, which is crucial to understanding the dynamic Aragorn and Arwen had during their 38-year-long engagement.

The doors in the Last Homely House do not creak under any conditions and certainly not at the hand of the Evenstar, Arwen Undomiel. Light of foot, the elven woman slipped into the darkened room as silently as a figment of wind. She had often lighted through the sun-filled forests alongside her brothers, running swiftly along lanes between the wide, smooth trunks and leaping up to grasp low branches on which they would run and try and get ahead of the others. Sometimes, Arwen would choose branches ten feet above her head. Her agility and grace were unparalleled by her larger, clumsier brothers. 

Her hair swept behind her like a midnight memory as she ghosted across the floor, her bare feet making no noise on the wood floors. She whisked past overstuffed bookshelves and a table piled high with loose documents and books carefully stacked to the edges. One scroll had been laid out neatly in the center of the desk. It was The Lay of Luthien. Of course. A partially transcribed copy was stretched out next to its parent, edges held down by a diverse assortment of river stones, neat little bones, a can of the pungent, sweet-smelling leaf the room’s occupant had picked up in the Shire, and a knuckle-shaped piece of frosted amber. There was little else in the room beside the bookshelves, the desk and a large bed. 

Her nightgown swirled around her ankles as she came to a stop in front of the bed and paused, barely breathing. The covers stirred and the bed-rumpled head of the Dunedan emerged from under one of Elrond’s silky pillows. Wordlessly, he lifted one leaden arm to make space for Arwen at his side. His eyes were closed. He seemed totally asleep. With a sigh, she slipped under the covers and nestled into him. He rolled over onto his back, pulling her closer, and let his other arm fall across her body. After the cool mists of Imladris at night, the sheer warmth of his body made her shiver in involuntary delight. 

“How did you know it was me?” She whispered, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. Aragorn’s sleepy voice was muffled against her shoulder.

“I just know,” He murmured.

Arwen took his hand and pulled it further over her stomach. “Did you hear me?” 

“I just know,” he repeated. His hand briefly caressed her cheek, and then fell back, his breathing deepening once more into the rhythm of sleep. 

Arwen had other plans. She sat up, pulling a good portion of the blankets with her. Aragorn groaned as the cool night air rushed in, but didn’t bother to move. His linen tunic, worn to the point of perfect softness, was twisted around his body and his disheveled hair gleamed silver in the moonlight like a premonition of old age. She let him lay there for a moment, just to watch him wake. His arms were splayed out and his legs disappeared under the blankets. He often slept on his back, but not always. His expression was grave, even in sleep, but she thought some of the weather had fallen away, leaving a translucent beauty that recalled a marble statue of an ancient Lord, with the high, stark lines of stone cheekbone and carven eye socket shining palely in the blue light of the moon.  
She leaned forward and put both hands on his chest. He cracked one glinting grey eye to watch her. So she had his attention. He watched her, still one-eyed, as she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his left cheek. Both their eyes fluttered closed on contact and she felt Aragorn shift underneath her as he reached up and ran his hands up the furrow of her back, down her long, slender arms, and up to her chin. He caressed her face softly as she kissed him again on the other cheek. He tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. By the time she got to his lips both eyes were open. He stayed motionless, hands lingering now on her waist, just gazing at her. She waited cannily, knowing just how long they could simply watch each other. His eyes were the color of a clear stream running over a stony bed. Quick and crystal clear were the thoughts running behind those eyes. To some they might have seemed to be cold thoughts, the trackings of a hunter whose whole mind is bent to the passage of dreadful things hidden from the sanctity of the sun. She knew otherwise. Deep roots are not touched by the frost indeed.  
Aragorn finally conceded, putting all of their moment into a name.  
“Arwen.”  
It was more of a breath than a word, simultaneously an admission and a question. She bent down, inordinately aware of the bristly, unshaven stubble on his throat under her thumb, the thrumming of his heart felt through his fingertips, and a million other sensations that they shared. Mortal and elf-kind, not so different after all. She floated down towards his waiting lips, coming to rest as softly as a moonbeam. His lips were chapped but warm as they traveled chastely over hers. They sank back into the pillow and Aragorn scooted back until he was leaning against the headboard. She pulled her knees under her and Aragorn slipped his hand under the cloak of her hair to cup the nape of her neck. The night seemed more alive, more vibrant than before.  
She dropped some of her customary reserve and kissed him deeply, drinking in the sharing of them. Aragorn, surprised at first, reciprocated quickly, holding her tightly as they parted and joined again and again. Sometimes Arwen, not necessarily the more patient of the two, would be forced to wait while Aragorn insisted on another dangerously long, gradual kiss, and she would find herself pulled into his unwavering insistence. 

It seemed like hours before her fingers were tangled in his hair and his arms were locked around her. She reclined on the solidness of his body, feeling the hard muscles of his back rolling under his skin as he kissed her neck. She tilted her head back, and felt his lips sweep up her throat to her chin.  
She grabbed his shoulders and twisted, elven-strong, to bring him down on top of her, never once ceasing to kiss him passionately. His legs were tangled in the blankets, and Arwen’s hair was draped over his back like a veil. Aragorn saluted her with a last kiss and then drew her to him until they were pressed together and his hands were following the curve of her spine down, down... Arwen sighed quietly, the first noise either of them had made in what seemed like forever as she ran one hand over Aragorn’s ribs. Her other hand strayed for a moment, lighting as gently as a moth on his lower stomach, just above his groin.  
Aragorn jerked back as though he’d been stung, suddenly conscious of what they were doing and what they had been about to do. He was still stradling Arwen, and he scrambled back until he was crouched by the foot of the bed. He looked startled, desire still warring with restraint, his pupils so dilated as to swallow the iris. Arwen sat up on the opposite side, barely breathing, watching Aragorn’s chest rise and fall rapidly, so differently than it had as he lay half-asleep. She regained her composure first.  
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-” Aragorn cut her off. “It’s ok, Arwen. But I almost-”  
“You did nothing of the kind. It was my responsibility.”  
Aragorn brushed his hair out of his eyes and stuck his legs out in front of him. He forced a small smile, probably in an attempt to relax himself.  
“It’s both of ours.”  
Outside the wide windows, the mist blowing off the Falls rolled down the windows. Somewhere someone was singing a sorrowing song. The voice blended in and out of the waterfall like the voice of Imladris herself.  
“Your father would end me,” Aragorn joked, mostly to break the silence.  
Arwen frowned. “It’s more than that and you know it.” Her gaze lingered on his flushed lips.  
“No one ever said it would be so hard.”  
Aragorn sidled closer and tentatively reached out his hands for hers. She gave them and they sat there for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. When they grew chilly, Aragorn wrapped his blankets and body around Arwen. She laid her head against his chest and he cradled her. “How does this happen?” he asked eventually.  
“How did what happen?” Arwen wondered.  
“This.” He held out his hand in front of them. “I can feel you in my arms, even when I’m hundreds of leagues away. I’ll hear your voice and go looking for you, only to learn it was the wind, or a bird, or that I dreamed it. And when you touch me...” She felt a shudder run through his body from crown to feet.  
“It’s like I’m full of star-fire, as though the whole world could turn to ash and I could stand through it, full of that feeling. As though I’m running faster than I ever have, and I can’t breathe, but I’ll never have to stop. Holding you feels like...” He searched for the words, but couldn’t find them. He shuddered again. “The things you can do to me with a touch...”  
Arwen extracted herself from Aragorn’s lap and reached up to touch his face. He turned his head away so that her fingers only brushed the stubble of his chin.  
“Please, I can’t take anymore.”  
“A wonderful Man once told me,” Arwen whispered to him, “that there is no certainty in this life. But know this, Aragorn son of Arathorn, I will love you till the end of time. Though all the world burns, you and I will stand through it. What you feel is true, you don’t need to be afraid of it.”  
His head sank slowly onto her shoulder. It was awkward and they laughed, but quietly to avoid calling attention to themselves.  
“Let me do something. It’s something I’ve been meaning to do for some time.” She collected herself in front of him, placing her hands in her lap. “Let me do this for you” she said.  
He met her gaze, perfectly solemn, beyond trusting and, after a moment, said:  
“Okay.”  
His eyes remained locked on her face as she placed just the pads of her fingers on the side of his head, as though trying to read his mind. Maybe she could because she knew, terrified as he was, exactly where he needed her touch.  
Never under his clothes, never anywhere that could seem untoward. Her fingers ran over his body, feeling, memorizing, calming, and entrancing.  
She began at the back of his head, over the sweaty baby hairs on the nape of his neck soothing the taut muscles and hair-trigger nerves. Her fingers fluttered over his jugular and sought out every notch of his adam’s apple. Great pain, especially that which is inflicted knowingly and hatefully by another sentient creature, scars the spirit as well as the body. Most people rid themselves of it by themselves through time and a sense of safety. In Aragorn’s case, even though his bloodline granted him exceptional healing abilities for a human, there were too many, too frequent, for him to heal all by himself. It was by no means dangerous by itself, but it could obscure the light of the world and the hope that kept him going and that was a sorrowful thing. She reached into the bottomless well of herself and breathed out into the love that bound them. His pulse thrummed in his ears as she distilled her grace into his blood.  
“Keep the beard.” She said after a while.  
“You like it?” Aragorn hummed, surprised. He usually stayed clean-shaven in Rivendell, but he hadn’t had time to shave yet. Arwen nodded, and pressed her left hand to his breast. Same with the right, over his heart. Her dark eyes fluttered closed and she bowed her head, concentrating. Whatever she did next, it arced through Aragorn’s being like a bolt of lightning. There was nothing gentle about it; it was fierce and warming and lit up crevices of feeling he didn’t know he had. This feeling never left, but simmered somewhere just below his sternum as she sought out every scar and injury, new and old, that haunted him. Her fingers effortlessly rediscovered the gnarly, branched scar above his left ear and the handful of scratches and bruises that blossomed like black flowers in his body. Aches and knots he’d carried for years unwound themselves and melted away. The grief for his mother she couldn’t heal, and wouldn’t attempt to, lest it lessen Gilraen’s memory. She turned him around and discovered a fading wound on his back that had sunk into his spine, which she skirted and warmed with a strange pulse.  
Aragorn found himself hanging onto normal perception by a thread as she traced the bones of his hands, the raised veins of his forearms standing out blue under the sun-speckled skin. He felt the tide of her ancient power rising over him and began to struggle, but quickly realized it was futile and surrendered to it. Arwen’s concentration, and her power over him in this moment, was unwavering but he wasn’t afraid anymore. Time seemed to slow down, a moment stretched, encompassing more than he’d thought could be found anywhere. At the same time the very nature of it was so fast, so effortless. His heartbeat was as swift and sure as a deep river, his breath as expansive and seamless as the sea. He felt spun out of himself, and grounded in his body. He felt like he could fill the sky with a song. He felt Arwen’s immortality. She sought out everywhere he’d ever been hurt and made it disappear. It was like the raging storm of his mind was finally calming, and he could see clearly to the horizon.  
“You have many scars for a young man,” she said, her hands resting on his thighs.  
He smiled down at her, eyes still shut. “I’m seventy-six, brennil nin. Many have worse that are half my age.”  
Arwen couldn’t help but think that many half his age had died of such wounds. It gave her hope that he, at least, had survived.  
She could feel the largest scars suspended in the web of living tissue stiff and heavy, like dead wood. She felt her heart squeeze. He survived, but the evidence of how close he’d come was apparent in aches on rainy days, or how he still favored his left leg early in the morning. How close he’d come…  
She moved back up to his arms, letting her attention flow to where it was needed. She’d always loved how it seemed his skin came from the bark of two different trees. Rough oak on the top of his arm and pale yellow birch on the underside. Countershaded like a trout. Likewise, his face and neck were was so dark compared to his chest. Even clad in moonlight as he was now, he carried the Sun’s fiery balm with him. Mortals were a tapestry of trials. They couldn’t pass through anything untouched.  
She ran a single finger down his nose. His eyes were lightly closed, his nostrils flaring slightly with each restful breath. She had the uncomfortable realization that the light she’d sent running under his skin was bringing him the closest he’d ever come to elven life. Worried that she’d gone too far, she murmured,  
“You are no elf.”  
Aragorn heard her as if from afar. Every fiber in his body was become liquid under her galvanizing touch. The mellow warmth of her life force sank into the many cold nights spent half-awake and obliterated the sharpest edges of loneliness, of winter, and the ceaseless wariness of the Enemy, somehow without obscuring the memory or lessons learned there. The rush of Arwen’s gift settled into a slow, steady flow, running out into his limbs, lengthening muscles and relaxing each ligament and tendon. He felt like a shield of bedrock resting on the earth’s surface as water poured over it in a peaceful summer storm. The roots of him went deep, deep into the earth. His face had been bathed in sun and rain; he was pure, and fixed, and as solid as the foundations of the earth. Every hurt, healed. Every loss, soothed. All save one.  
“How are you doing this?” He whispered, so quietly that only an elf could have heard it. Or maybe he just thought it loudly.  
Arwen’s eyes flickered up to his face. He felt her gaze like the front of that summer storm, aching of dust and warm rain.  
“I am Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Celebrian. I can do many things when I see fit. My father is skilled at healing the body, but I heal the soul. It was my mother’s gift as well.”  
Her fingers found the small, silver scar just under his shoulder blade. She hesitated, sensing the great darkness of it, like a crack in his world, the keyhole behind which lurked a terrible evil. Even through his skin and shirt, it felt toxic.  
“Is this where-?”  
“Yes.”  
She hovered over it, afraid to touch it and maybe awake the slumbering darkness there. It ran like a shattered needle in fragments straight through his shoulder. He brushed her hand away.  
“The men of Ithilien did their best. By the time I got here there was nothing more anyone could do, not even the Evenstar.” he took both hands and kissed them together, “Let’s not think about it.”  
“I wish I could rid you of it.”  
Aragorn said nothing, simply pulled the blankets off them and tucked the corners fastidiously back under the end of the mattress before sliding under, pulling her with him. It took awhile for them to come to rest, he on his back and she on her side pillowing her head on his chest.  
“One day you will be rid of it, meleth nin.” She whispered  
Aragorn hugged her tighter, suddenly afraid she’d be ripped away. “Perhaps.”  
The briefest echo of sharp-shod hooves pounded in his ears. Iron flashed behind his eyes, the sensation of perpetually falling on slippery stones. The bedrock-storm-feeling rose in him and turned back the worst of the old nightmare. He shut his eyes before the end of the memory found him. He recounted Arwen to himself as she rested light and secure in his arms. It was a list of his favorite moments with her, his path through them so well-trodden that when he fell asleep, he continued to run through them. All the better for they seemed closer in dreams.

Sometime, near morning, Aragorn felt Arwen stir.  
“Are you leaving?”  
She kissed his cheek. “I must.”  
He rolled onto his stomach and buried his head in the pillows. His muffled voice could be heard a few moments later.  
“I could get up.”  
Arwen laughed, belatedly muffling the sound in her hands. “Do you want to?”  
Aragorn looked out the window. He estimated they had about an hour until sunrise. All of Rivendell knew about them, but not everyone approved. To keep the peace, Arwen made sure they were never discovered doing anything more than friendly.  
“Perhaps. Do you want to go for a ride?”  
She looked at him. He looked back. Then a wide smile spread across her face and she said.  
“That is a question to which you already know the answer.”  
Aragorn slithered over the sheets and hopped off the bed. He rushed into her, scooping her up with delight and pirouetting lithely on his toes. Her nightgown billowed around them like a whorl of silky white petals. The elf-woman, caught up in his arms, felt their worries brushed away like so much dust. Dark wounds affected people differently, she thought, and Aragorn was okay.  
They landed safely by the desk and slipped out the faithfully creak-less door. Hand in hand, Dunedan and elf maid sped down the hallway like a nightingale and her long-limbed shadow. The doors of the Last Homely House bowed open to admit them into the predawn mists and Aragorn, renewed by the grace of the Valar and with Arwen’s lily-stem form flitting ahead of him, ran swiftly towards the stables. It seemed like the veils of the past had parted, and Luthien danced once more on the lawn of Tol Galen with Beren close behind.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read this far!, thank you! 
> 
> Fellow whump enthusiasts or people who just inexplicably like my writing may be interested in the following:
> 
> This fic deals with the theory that Aragorn (under the name Thorongil) was captured by the Nazgul sometime around T.A. 2978. This is two years before he defeats the Corsairs and "passed out of the knowledge of the Men of the West, and went alone far into the East and deep into the South, exploring the hearts of Men, both good and evil, and uncovering the plots and devices of the servant of Sauron" (Appendix A, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen). Previously, he'd just skirted Mordor, "facing perils on the confines of Mordor" (Appendix A ...) in 2980. What is the singular peril on the confines of Mordor (not counting Shelob)? It's Minas Morgul, the old Tower of the Moon. There's any number of reasons he could have ventured there, but I elected to say it was an intelligence operation based out of Minas Tirith and/or Dol Amroth that went pear-shaped in the worst possible way and landed Aragorn, undercover as Thorongil, in the Dead City.  
> In the Fellowship of the Ring, when Strider tells Frodo about the Ringwraiths, he says "They are terrible!" and Tolkein goes on to say that the hobbits see "his face was drawn as if with pain, and his hands clenched the arms of his chair... he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memory or listening to sounds in the Night far away". Strider concludes by saying, "Perhaps I know more about these pursuers than you". It's up to the individual reader, but that sounds to me like he knows more than he likes about the Nazgul. 
> 
> I have a 20,000 word fic (mostly whump, hurt/comfort, and BAMF!Aragorn, torture with some psychological elements, zero sexual abuse, zero humiliation). It's something I've been adding to ever since I finished the movies for the third time and I'm looking for a beta reader to make sure it's up to code and all that good stuff. Leave a comment if you're interested!


End file.
